


wanna blow you (away)

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Emotion-Drunk Sex, In Public, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Wax Play, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26226199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: Five times El went down on Q. That’s it, that’s the fic.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 26
Kudos: 139





	wanna blow you (away)

**Author's Note:**

> Not canon compliant (ignores 4x13 on). 
> 
> Title from “Things I’ll Never Say” by Avril Lavigne. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Sylph for betaing!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the Peaches And Plums discord and to these absurd boys who can’t just suck a dick without making it a whole Thing.

|1|

The first time -- at least the first time Eliot remembers -- is their three hundred and sixty-sixth day in Fillory, when he finishes drying the last dish after dinner and turns around and Quentin is standing right there, and he steps into Eliot's personal space and kisses him.

Eliot enjoys the kiss while it lasts, and lasts, Quentin's lips soft and sweet against his, a hint of his tongue just sneaking out to taste Eliot's mouth.

Quentin lets the kiss end and pulls back a little, smiling at Eliot.

"I thought we weren't overthinking this," Eliot says. He's a little amazed he can pull himself together enough to form a full sentence. His head is swimming with _Quentin, Quentin, Quentin_ , with the overwhelming desire to lean back in and kiss this sweet boy for _real_.

"I'm not," Quentin says. "I've thought about it exactly the right amount. And, I-- this is what I want. I want this with you. So."

Eliot stares at him, trying to ferret out any hint of uncertainty, of _this is better than nothing I guess_ , make sure Quentin understands the out Eliot had so selflessly given him that morning. He mostly ends up looking at Quentin's lips, instead, and thinking about how much he'd like another kiss.

"If you don't want to," Quentin says abruptly, "That's-- I mean obviously that's fine, I don't want to pressure you--"

Eliot grabs him around the waist, pulls him close, kisses that absurd question right out of his mouth.

They end up on the bed with Eliot kneeling between Quentin's legs, kissing his way down Quentin's belly, feeling the vibrations of every little moan and cut-off noise under his lips. Quentin's already getting hard when Eliot gets his pants open, and Eliot refuses to move even for a moment to let him take them all the way off, he _has_ to take Quentin's lovely cock into his mouth immediately. He has to run his tongue over the head as he sucks Quentin down and _feel_ the rush of blood. Has to hear the shocked, "Jesus _fuck_ , El--" and then the immediate descent into incoherence, the gasps and soft little whines. He needs Quentin not just not overthinking, but not thinking at _all_ , about anything but Eliot's mouth and how fucking good Eliot can make him feel.

When Quentin's cock is fully hard in his mouth, Eliot switches to teasing, just for a minute, licking broad stripes up and down Quentin's length, rolling his balls in his hand and then leaning down to suck on them. Quentin squirms and arches and his hands grab fitfully at the sheets. Eliot feels a laugh building in his chest, a thing of pure delight and amazement, but laughing when you're going down on someone who you would very much like to keep getting to sleep with is not a great idea, so he holds it back.

"Patience, Q," he purrs, rolling away so Quentin can actually get his pants off, sprawl out naked and wanting under Eliot's hungry gaze. 

"Yeah," Quentin says, breathless. "Yeah, sorry, you can-- what do you want? What can I do for you?" He tries to sit up, reaching for Eliot.

Eliot climbs back between Quentin's legs, presses him back down onto the bed with one hand on his chest. "You can relax," he says firmly, "and let me enjoy sucking this fucking gorgeous dick of yours."

Quentin makes a desperate face and an objectively silly noise and Eliot swallows his smile and then swallows Quentin's cock again.

He loses himself in it, the smooth motion and heady taste of Quentin in his mouth. He splays a hand over Quentin's abdomen, feels his muscles flex in time with Eliot's rhythm as he holds himself back from thrusting. He's got good blowjob etiquette, this boy. And he's got _great_ blowjob reactions, swearing a blue streak and saying Eliot's name so many times it all blends together, _fuck-yes-El-fuck-Eliot-Jesus-Eliot-fuck-Eliot--_. Eliot looks up Quentin's body, sees his beautiful face flushed and wide-eyed staring at Eliot, and makes a happy noise deep in his throat -- because it's the next best thing to laughing, and also it'll make Quentin yelp and shudder as he feels the vibrations.

Eliot really should draw it out longer, see if there's anything else Quentin would like, but he's so focused on making this _so good_ , pouring every ounce of _yes please stay let me have this as long as I can_ into it, that Quentin is shouting and his come is spilling down Eliot's throat and all Eliot can do is swallow it and pray that he was good enough that he'll get to do it again.

Quentin doesn't rest for more than a split-second, he's immediately grabbing at Eliot's shoulders and dragging him up his body for a deep kiss. Eliot's sure Quentin can taste himself on Eliot's tongue, and the surprise that Quentin would _want_ that makes him moan.

Quentin licks at Eliot's well-used lips, teases with his teeth. Then he pulls back, eyes sparkling, and says, "My turn."

Eliot doesn't have a chance to overthink anything else for the rest of the evening.

|2|

Eliot has important work to do here in his own mind. He knows that. He needs to be gathering intel on this Monster, finding ways to communicate it to his friends on the outside, if he wants to ever get the fuck out of here. But constantly running from all the other monsters is _exhausting_ , and a guy needs a break every once in a while. All work and no play, etcetera etcetera.

If he concentrates right, he can visit any memory that took place in the physical kids cottage without leaving the safety of his mind palace. He's re-lived a few of his greatest parties, lounging in a corner of the living room and swimming in triumph at his own skill. He's re-experienced the hilarious night when Margo put a compulsory singing charm on the front door, so everyone who came through did so dramatically while bursting into song. And now-- he's curious. 

So he walks up the stairs, which don't creak since they're just a memory, a figment of his imagination. He walks into his room, decorated as it had been at the height of his Brakebills happiness. He settles himself in the chair by the window, and focuses back:

_on the rush of battle magic out of his fingers, a curious stillness everywhere else in his body_

_the sharp taste of good-enough-for-tonight vodka burning almost harsh enough to drown out the burn of his returned emotions_

_clumsy feet up the stairs, deceptively strong arms holding him upright on either side of him_

_soft sheets against his cheek_

_soft noises, just at the edge of his awareness, and he blinks his eyes open sluggishly_

And then the memory is playing out in front of him, Quentin and Margo kissing, her lazily, him desperately. She's straddling one of his legs, rubbing herself against his thigh, clearly enjoying herself immensely.

Eliot (the real Eliot, not the memory of himself that he’s watching) wasn't sure how much of this scene he'd actually be able to see, whether the memory was there but buried or whether he hadn't made any memories of that night at all. He watches himself roll over laboriously on the bed, his eyes darkening with desire as he takes in what's happening next to him.

Margo notices he's awake, grins slyly at him, sits up and rolls her hips harder against Quentin. Eliot (both memory-Eliot and real-Eliot) can see a smear of wetness on Quentin's thigh under her body, knows how turned on she must be. Memory-Eliot reaches out and cups her breast, thumbs at one beautiful dark nipple.

Quentin's eyes take a minute to focus on Eliot's hand, but then his head snaps sharply to the side, and he scrambles, pushing up on his elbows. "El, sorry, fuck--" he starts.

"Shh-shh-shh," Memory-Eliot says, and presses a finger to Quentin's lips. "Don't leave my Bambi hanging."

Quentin swallows hard. "You don't-- mind?"

"Not if I can watch." Memory-Eliot drags his finger along Quentin's mouth, inhales sharply when Quentin's lips part and he takes Eliot's finger into his mouth, sucks on it. "Or join."

Quentin moans and lunges sideways, going in for a kiss. Memory-Eliot deflects, pushing Quentin onto his back on the bed.

"Uh-uh," he says. "Ladies first."

Quentin looks stunned, his pupils huge like he's high -- which they all were, really, real-Eliot muses, they were out of their minds on alcohol and sex and that most treacherous drug of all, _feelings_. It's amazing that Quentin even has the wherewithal to reach up and cup Margo's breasts, arch up into her when she folds herself down to kiss him again.

Real-Eliot and memory-Eliot watch them, entranced, as Margo takes exactly what she wants and Quentin gives it all to her, obedient and adorably determined. She grinds on him a little while longer, then straddles his face, pulling his hand into place so his fingers can sink inside her as he licks and licks and makes the most deliciously dirty noises. She rides him like that until her moans have transitioned from mildly theatrical to sincere, a little broken, and then she fists a hand in his hair and lifts herself off of his mouth. A glistening line stretches from her cunt down to Quentin's lips, holds for a long moment before it succumbs to gravity and snaps onto his chin.

"I want to come on your dick, but I don't want you coming in me. Can you handle that?"

Quentin makes a noise like he's dying and nods.

Margo gracefully slides backwards, and real-Eliot doesn't need to watch what she's doing to pinpoint the moment she sinks down onto Quentin. It's perfectly obvious in the way Quentin's head snaps back, the breathless " _Fuck_ " that spills from his wet lips.

"Not bad, baby," Margo says, starting to move her hips. Both Eliots know intimately what that rocking motion feels like, not so much in-and-out as just a constant flex and slide of Margo's cunt, and both are fairly impressed that Quentin doesn't just explode right at that moment. "Gimme just a minute, your pretty mouth got me most of the way there."

Quentin holds on to her waist helplessly, biting his lip so hard real-Eliot is worried he might draw blood, as she rides his dick and works her clit until her moans are broken again and the line of her back is tense, and she grinds down hard onto Quentin as she comes, shuddering, crying out wordlessly.

Quentin keeps his teeth in his lip until she slides off him, and then he goes boneless, panting. His cock looks painfully hard, shining with wetness. Margo looks up and down his body with an air of smug pride, then looks at memory-Eliot, raises an eyebrow.

Eliot watches his remembered self sit up, sinuous, and reposition quickly so he's crouched between Quentin's legs. Quentin, still stunned, appears to have very little idea what's happening until Eliot's mouth slides over him, and then he _yells_ , arching off the bed. Memory-Eliot draws off of Quentin's cock with a wet noise, smirks wickedly at Margo.

"You've got him so close, Bambi," he says. "This isn't going to take long at all."

"The faster it goes, the faster he can get to taking care of you," Margo points out, wise as always.

"You guys know I'm here too, right?" Quentin says, breathless but still bratty, and Margo leans over to brush his hair back from his sweaty forehead.

"Of course we do," she croons. "Otherwise, what's Eliot sucking on?"

Memory-Eliot takes his cue and sucks Quentin's cock down again, anticipating the frantic jolt of Quentin's hips and raising his head to compensate. Real-Eliot knows what that feels like, to have Quentin's cock so fucking hard against his tongue, the head fat and throbbing. He knows what it tastes like, to taste Margo all over a lovely boy's cock after she works him to within a hair's breadth of orgasm. He doesn't actually remember what those two sensations were like in combination. Watching like this will have to be enough, at least until he gets his body back and he can try and make this happen again, without the emotional intoxication this time.

That thought spoils the moment for him, makes his chest ache and his palms itch with the desire to leap back into action, try and scrounge up any more dirt on the Monster that he can, work on his plan to feed that information out to the outside world. His metaphorical chest and metaphorical palms, anyway -- he has no real physical sensation, here. (If he did, he'd be fucking rock hard right now.) It's all his mind, all of it, just chemicals flying around letting him travel down the well-worn paths between neurons. This Margo isn't real. This Quentin isn't real. This Eliot he's looking at isn't real, he's a memory, and if real-Eliot doesn't get his act together, that might be the only Eliot that's left.

He stays another minute, though, listening to memory-Quentin's moans get shorter and breathier as Eliot gives him the best blowjob of his young life (Eliot assumes). He appreciates that he's watching the arc of a story, and it feels wrong to leave just before the -- terrible pun incoming -- climax. 

When Quentin finally thrusts up into the wet heat of Eliot's mouth and finishes, gasping, real-Eliot stands and walks out of the memory, down the stairs of his mind palace. He'll come back later, after he figures out how to communicate again with real-Quentin or real-Margo, and watch the rest of whatever happened that night. It's too painful right now to sit and watch his memory-self get to be with them, the two people he loves most in this world, when he doesn't know if his real self will ever have that opportunity again.

|3|

"What do I have to do to get the Dean to ban you from campus?" Quentin grumbles, scratching something out furiously in his notes.

"Something impressive, I assume," Eliot says. He stretches his arms wide, yawning theatrically and deliberately brushing Quentin's face with the tips of his fingers. Quentin flinches away from him, glares at him fiercely, and jerks his pile of books away from Eliot's legs. Eliot just uses the extra space to cross his legs and lounge even more prettily on the tabletop. "I'm part of the team that saved magic. I know untold secrets of gods and monsters. And also the Dean allied himself with a bunch of fascists and served me up to a psychopathic demon on a silver platter, and I think he still feels a _little_ guilty about that. I wouldn't count on him kicking me out any time soon."

"There must be something in the school bylaws about not being allowed here if you didn't graduate and you're not enrolled in classes."

"Must be," Eliot agrees. "But lucky for me, you'll never have time to find the relevant section if you spend your entire spring break working on invisibility wards."

"This assignment is due two days after break ends, Eliot, I can't just--"

"You _can_ take a break from it, Q, is the thing." Eliot shifts so he's sitting cross-legged in front of Quentin. "I would even venture to say you _need_ to. You _slept here_ in the library last night, that's not healthy. And your side of the bed was all cold when I woke up, it was awful."

"You really act like you're fourteen sometimes, you know that?"

"Hard as it is to believe, I was even hornier at fourteen," Eliot says. "And maybe I wouldn't be acting like a frustrated teenager again if my boyfriend would come home at night and keep me company."

Quentin sighs, dropping his head into his ink-stained hands. "I know, I want to, I just. I _have_ to pass this class, El, I am _two credits_ away from being able to start on my thesis and I can't fuck this up."

Eliot looks at him, the crumpled-up drafts strewn across the floor behind him, the little packet of spell components sitting untouched on the corner of the table, waiting for Quentin to figure out how to actually use them correctly. "I know," he says, his voice soft. "I wish you would believe me when I tell you that you _are_ going to pass this class even if you get a decent night's sleep. You're a good magician, Q. You'll find the answer. You might even find it faster if you let your brain rest a bit."

"See, the logical part of me--"

"There's another part of you?"

"The logical part of me knows you're right," Quentin interrupts back, annoyance creeping into his voice. "But I'm so fucking stressed, I just want this to be _done_. I can relax after it is."

Eliot reaches forward and pets Quentin's hair a bit. Quentin sighs and leans his head against Eliot's fingers. "How about this," Eliot says. "If I can find a way to reduce your stress level, will you take a real break? Just for the night. Come home, I'll reheat dinner, you can sleep in a bed and take a shower. Then you can go back to being an antisocial little teacher's pet tomorrow."

"Good luck reducing my stress level by insulting me," Quentin says. But he looks up at Eliot and smiles a little, and Eliot knows he has permission to put his plan into action.

"That wasn't the part that's going to reduce your stress, that was just some fun for me," Eliot says. He swings his legs around, slides lightly off the table. "The part that's going to reduce your stress -- well, it's two parts, technically. First." He grabs the packet of spell components, points a finger at one of the books in Quentin's stack and it flies towards him, opening to the page he wants. "A demonstration, just to refresh your memory about what an invisibility ward is supposed to look like."

"I don't want you to tell me the answer, Eliot, I want to figure it out myself," Quentin says furiously, grabbing for the book. Eliot whisks it out of his reach with his mind.

"I'm not telling you any answers, I'm just redoing the same demonstration that Professor Li did when she gave you this assignment. You observe what I do. Take notes if you want. Maybe it'll shake something loose in your brain." Eliot takes the rosemary out of the component packet and rubs the leaves to get the oil on his fingers, then starts sketching the correct tuts in the air. "At the very least, it should reassure you that if a miserable dropout like me can cast a ward like this, you certainly can."

Quentin looks like he still wants to argue, but his hand is inching towards his notebook, his eyes flitting back and forth between Eliot's hand positions and the little circle of nothingness that's started appearing in the air over the table. Eliot lets himself smirk inwardly, but keeps his face focused. This really isn't a difficult ward, once you know the trick about factoring in the barometric pressure. He finishes the sequence with a flourish, and the circle of nothingness balloons larger and envelopes him, settling over him like a second skin.

Quentin sits up straight in his chair. "Wait, why'd you put in that wrist inversion? What does that do?"

"Excellent question," Eliot says. It sounds a little like he's speaking underwater, he can hear his voice inside his head more than he can from outside it. "Better write it down so you can figure out the answer later."

"But if I--"

" _Later_ ," Eliot says firmly. Quentin rolls his eyes. "It's time for part two of stress reduction."

"Which is what?" Quentin asks.

Eliot has been silently crouching down, not letting his clothing rustle or his shoes tap on the floor, and crawling oh so carefully under the table. He crawls right up to Quentin's chair. "This," he says, and runs an invisible hand up Quentin's thigh to squeeze his dick through his pants.

Quentin jumps a foot. "Jesus, Eliot," he hisses.

"Please?" Eliot asks, putting as much pout as he can into his voice since Quentin can't see his face. "I promise it'll be good."

Quentin scoots forward in his chair, putting more of his body within Eliot's reach. "We are in the library, there are _other people_ here--" he mutters between gritted teeth.

"Nobody else is here, Quentin, it's spring break. And anyway, what's the point of casting an invisibility ward if you're not going to do something a little naughty with it?" Eliot has been slowly, slowly tugging open the button on Quentin's jeans, giving Quentin ample opportunity to push his hands away or push his chair back. Quentin's still cooperating with him, though, so he reaches into Quentin's underwear to get his dick out.

"You're the one who's invisible, my--" Quentin bends down towards the tabletop and whispers even quieter-- " _I_ am not invisible, I am _completely visible_ under the table."

"Fortunately," Eliot says, "the ward on me will also apply to things that enter my personal space. Including, say, my mouth."

"Jesus, Eliot," Quentin says again -- but this time it's more like a sigh than a hiss, and his dick is starting to fill in Eliot's hand.

"You just sit back, let me take care of you," Eliot says soothingly. "Oh, and try to stay quiet. We _are_ in a library."

"El--" Eliot can _hear_ Quentin clamp his mouth shut as Eliot leans in and licks his cock, just behind the head where he's particularly sensitive.

"Yes?"

The only answer is the sight of Quentin's hands tightening on his own thighs. Eliot grins and goes to work.

He doesn't have as much freedom of movement as he'd like, scrunched up under a table with just Quentin's dick pulled out of his clothes. Normally he'd rely on things like sucking on Quentin's balls or fingering him (or teasing like he's going to finger him) to make this really good. But that makes it a fun challenge. It's just Eliot's mouth and Quentin's cock. Taking it old school, baby.

Eliot teases again at that spot behind the head until Quentin starts to squirm a little in his seat, his dick fully hard. Then he teases some more, until a pearly bead of precome collects in Quentin's slit. Only then does he actually lick his lips, press the head of Quentin's cock right against the seam of his closed mouth so it can slide in through the tight circle of his lips. Above him he hears Quentin breathe in sharply, but that's the only noise he makes.

Eliot could -- really get off on this. Making Q stay quiet and in control for him. Running the risk that someone could walk in and see. He slides his mouth slowly down Quentin's length, hollows his cheeks to create suction on top of the heat and wet. Then he pulls back carefully, testing the angle to make sure his head isn't going to hit the table. 

And then he just goes for it.

It's hard not to make obscene wet noises, with Quentin's cock sliding in and out of his mouth, making him drool. Eliot builds to a steady rhythm, picks a pace he can stick with for a good long while. He's not sure how long this is going to go -- on the one hand, Quentin hasn't come in about four days, as far as Eliot can tell, so he's probably pretty hot for it. On the other hand, maybe being here, in the middle of the Brakebills library, will get into his head and keep him from finishing. Eliot decides he won't be offended either way. He'll just stay here and suck Quentin's dick, do that one twirly thing with his tongue over and over and massage the underside with his thumb in time with his strokes, until Quentin wants him to stop, one way or the other.

Quentin's fingers are digging into his thighs _hard_ , and as Eliot bobs steadily back and forth, Quentin reaches one hand forward blindly and finds Eliot's ear, then his face. He slides his fingers into Eliot's hair. He doesn't pull, or direct, just puts pressure on Eliot's scalp, makes it easy for Eliot to gauge his reactions.

Eliot wishes he could see Quentin's face above the table -- bright red, he assumes. Maybe he's hiding his face behind the stack of books, maybe his mouth is hanging open, maybe he's literally biting his tongue to keep from screaming. Quentin, once he gets comfortable, is _loud_ in bed. Like, test-the-strength-of-Eliot's-soundproofing-charms loud. He must be struggling incredibly hard to keep quiet through all of this. But his fingers rub silently against Eliot's head, twitch and tense and wrap Eliot's curls around them so Eliot knows exactly what Quentin is responding to and what he wants.

At the moment, what he wants seems to be for Eliot to just _not stop_ , as his fingers tighten and loosen in time with the motion of Eliot's mouth. Eliot can do that. He knows the power of a constant rhythm, how it can work Quentin to the edge bit by bit until he inevitably falls over it. Eliot's breathing is synced with his heartbeat is synced with the motion of his mouth is synced with Quentin's fingers rubbing increasingly desperately through his hair. Eliot doesn't want to fully lose himself in the moment, not when they are, in fact, in a public place, but he lets his eyes drift closed. He can't see Quentin's reactions, anyway. He can just _feel_ them, in the movements of his hand and the pulse of his cock.

In the end, it's the latter sensation that lets Eliot know he needs to get ready to swallow, Quentin's cock shading just that tiny bit more into hardness on Eliot's tongue -- and then Quentin's fingers tap frantically on the side of Eliot's head, a clear signal. Eliot reaches up to his own temple, smooths his thumb over the back of Quentin's hand -- _it's okay, darling, let go_ \-- and is thoroughly impressed when Quentin just sighs, albeit fairly loudly, as he comes hard in Eliot's mouth.

Eliot tucks Quentin gently back into his underwear, does up his fly. He sneaks out from under the table, managing not to groan as he unfolds his body from its crunched-up position. "Did that relieve any stress?" he asks calmly.

Quentin is, as expected, flushed and wide-eyed, and his lower lip is swollen like he's been worrying it in his teeth. He looks over at where Eliot's voice came from, then peers closer. "You have, um," he says, "You've got something on your lip. I think."

Eliot licks his lips, tastes the stray bead of come that managed to escape somehow. "Whoops," he says. "Guess things on the outside of my body don't stay invisible."

"Guess not," Quentin says. "Well, I feel great, I'm much less stressed. So much less, in fact, that I can just, jump right back into studying--"

"No," Eliot says, grabbing the book Quentin has started to reach for. "That wasn't our deal."

Quentin looks at him impassively. "I never technically agreed to the deal."

Eliot steeples his fingers in front of his face, rests his forehead on them, despite knowing the gesture will be entirely invisible to Quentin. "Quentin. I did not just give myself sore knees and a crick in my back blowing you under a table the library--"

"Shh!" Quentin says frantically, his impassive facade cracking a little bit. "Jesus, El, there could be someone--"

"--so you could keep destroying yourself over a piece of homework that isn't due for five more fucking days."

Quentin sighs and starts gathering his books. "Fine," he grumbles. But Eliot catches him smiling at the spot where he thinks Eliot is standing, letting Eliot see through his bratty act.

Eliot, who is no longer standing in that spot, waits until Quentin has all his things stuffed into his bag before he smacks him hard on the ass. Quentin yelps, loudly.

"Jesus, Q," Eliot says, scandalized. "This is a _library_. Have some respect."

|4|

Quentin is lovely to look at in all circumstances, honestly. Big brown eyes, well-muscled arms, beautiful silky hair. His mouth, so often pouty or shaped into a confused frown until it breaks into a wide, beaming, dimpled smile. Eliot acts like an absolute psychopath and just watches him sleep, sometimes, so he can truly _look at him_ as thoroughly as he wants, but really, could anyone blame him?

Getting to look at Quentin when he's asleep, however, absolutely pales in comparison to getting to look at Quentin when he's like _this_ :

cuffed at the wrists and ankles in smooth black leather

each cuff attached at a different corner of the bed, holding him spread-eagled

naked, the candles on the bedside table casting shadows across his body

covered in sweat and love-bites and drips of wax criss-crossing his torso, zig-zagging towards

his dick, so hard it's practically standing straight up from his body instead of curving in towards his stomach like usual.

Eliot wishes he could take a picture, but they didn't negotiate about that beforehand, and anyway it couldn't possibly capture the essence of this moment. The way Quentin is glowing, incandescent with need. The look in his eyes as he pleads with Eliot to just let him come, already, even though they agreed that they were going to get him to the edge and bring him back four times and he'd get to come on the fifth one. Quentin hasn't safeworded out yet (and Eliot has checked that he remembers it, he does) so this begging is just part of the game. Quentin likes to beg, likes it when Eliot can push him past his ability to be prickly or snarky and let him just _want_ openly.

"That was number three, sweet one," Eliot says. Quentin's abs twitch when he runs a hand across Quentin's stomach, pressing a little on a place where a bruise in the shape of Eliot's teeth is already starting to develop. "We have to get you back, and then we'll do number four, and then you can come."

"El," Quentin whines. He can't really arch off the bed when he's tied down like this, but that doesn't stop him from trying. " _Fuck_."

"Can you hold yourself back if I use my mouth for this one?" Eliot asks.

Quentin just stares at him, mouth open, panting. His cock is leaking precome steadily even though Eliot hasn't touched it in a full minute.

"I don't have to," Eliot says. He reaches out to tuck Quentin's hair behind his ear, and lets Quentin nuzzle his hand, cups his cheek. "I can use my hand again, or a toy. I could finger you." Quentin sobs, almost. "Or we can be done, if it's too much. This is for you, love. You get to decide."

Quentin shudders and shoves his head against Eliot's hand. Eliot presses back to give Quentin the resistance he needs. "Your mouth, please," he says. "But El, I'm so fucking close."

"I know, beautiful," Eliot says. "If you come, that's fine. You do what you need to do. But if you tell me you're on the edge, I'll stop again." He climbs onto the bed, positions himself between Quentin's legs. "That will be number four, and then after that I'll make you come."

"Please please please," Quentin whispers, voice fading to nothing by the third one.

Eliot looks down at his beautiful mess of a boyfriend, deciding where to start. Quentin's skin has taken a whole lot of sensation already tonight, so Eliot decides some soothing is in order. He reaches over to the bedside table to grab the candle that melts into massage oil instead of body-safe wax and blows out the flame, tests the temperature on the inside of his wrist.

Quentin hisses when the warm oil drizzles over the abused skin of his stomach, hisses again when Eliot sets down the candle and sweeps his hands gently through the oil. Eliot barely, just barely, rubs it into Quentin's skin, skating even more lightly over the spots where he bit earlier. Quentin's limbs relax gradually as he does it. His cock is still incredibly hard, but not quite as hard as it was a moment ago.

Eliot leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to Quentin's stomach, right where the first drizzle of oil hit. He kisses his way around, trailing his lips across Quentin's skin. Quentin's hisses and gasps turn into hums and sighs. Eliot glances up to see that Quentin's face is relaxed as well, peaceful and happy. 

Which means it's time to begin.

Eliot's kisses circle inexorably inwards, down Quentin's stomach and up the insides of his thighs until finally, finally, he presses a kiss to the base of Quentin's dick. Quentin makes a needy noise. Eliot keeps going, tracing kisses up until he's at the head. He swirls his tongue around it like licking an ice cream cone, sloppy and wet. Quentin moans.

Eliot swallows him down so gently, even more careful than usual. Quentin still _howls_ , all his muscles flexing. Eliot just stays there for a moment, letting Quentin get used to the wet heat around his cock. When he moves, finally, he barely uses any suction. He just lets Quentin's dick fill his mouth and holds his lips soft around it as his head rises and falls. Quentin wasn't kidding -- he is incredibly close. Eliot can sense it in the pulse of the vein under his tongue, the salt of precome still flowing from the tip. It's not surprising, Quentin generally gets this way around the fourth time, as long as Eliot has been doing his job right. But it's always delicious to see and feel and taste.

Sure enough, barely a minute later: "Eliot."

"Mm?" Eliot says around Quentin's dick, not wanting him to have a break until the appropriate moment.

"Fuck, I'm there, fuck Eliot I'm--"

And there's the appropriate moment. Eliot draws off Quentin's dick, not abruptly but with an air of decision.

" _Fuck_ oh my god, Eliot, _why_ \--" Quentin loses his words, just makes a desperate keening noise. His thighs and his abs tense and relax rhythmically, like he can somehow make himself come just by mimicking what his muscles would do if Eliot had kept going and taken him over the edge.

"Four," Eliot says softly. He looks up at Quentin's face. His lovely brown eyes are screwed shut, his mouth twisted up in a knot. "Quentin, look at me."

Quentin obeys automatically. "You get to come now," Eliot says carefully. (There was one time he took things too close, and literally just saying that did the trick-- but Quentin wasn't a huge fan of that, upon reflection, so Eliot's more cautious now.) "How would you like it?"

"Mouth," Quentin says immediately.

"Good," Eliot says, smiling. "I like swallowing for you." Quentin yelps and twitches. "I'll let you cool down for a moment, then that's what we'll do."

He's true to his word: he lets Quentin relax again, sink back into the mattress. And then he repeats the process from before, the kisses, the working his way in, sliding Quentin's cock so carefully into his mouth. He only manages three long slow strokes before Quentin screams his name and comes violently. Eliot's ready for it, holds it softly in his mouth and pulls off to swallow when Quentin's all done.

Eliot gets Quentin uncuffed, the stiffness carefully massaged out of his joints, washes him with a soft cloth and warm water and gets some orange juice into him for hydration and blood sugar purposes. Quentin stays pliant and relaxed the whole time, and actually dozes off with his head on Eliot’s chest before they even have a chance to debrief. Eliot sends out a quick tug of telekinesis to cover them with blankets, then stays there, nervous, until Quentin wakes up again, half an hour later.

“Whoa,” Quentin says, blinking. “I was-- out.”

“Like a light,” Eliot says, relief flooding him. “Did I go too hard? I haven’t seen you crash like that before.”

“It felt like a good crash, honestly,” Quentin says. He turns in Eliot’s arms, presses his forehead to Eliot’s chest. “I don’t think it was too hard. Your mouth is just. I mean.” He shrugs helplessly.

“I will happily fill in that space with any number of adjectives,” Eliot says. “Indescribable. Transcendent. The best you’ve ever had.”

“Sure,” Quentin says. “Whichever one of those means you can suck me off so good I fucking pass out.”

“We might have to invent a word for that specific scenario.” Eliot kisses Quentin’s forehead. “Glad you’re all right. Full debrief in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, yawning hugely. “As long as you’re all right as well. I hope I didn’t freak you out too badly.”

“A little, but that’s a discussion for later,” Eliot says. “Sleep well, beautiful Q.”

“Night,” Quentin mutters.

Eliot waits just a moment, watching him as his eyes close, his face softens, he turns into just a warm bundle of slack muscles in Eliot’s arms. Then he kisses his forehead one more time and waves a hand to turn out the light.

|5|

In the end, of course, they end up with a compromise that's somewhere between what each of them thought they wanted. They don't do a big event with a ton of guests, flower girls and ring bearers and a string quartet, a first dance and bouquet toss and feeding each other cake like Quentin initially wanted. They don't go to the courthouse with just Margo and Julia for witnesses, then enjoy the city's most exclusive chef-curated tasting menu for dinner and retire to a penthouse hotel room to fuck each other's brains out like Eliot initially wanted.

It's a small affair, twenty or so people in a Michelin-starred restaurant that has a side room they can rent out for the evening. Julia gets ordained on the internet and Margo walks Eliot down the aisle and carries the rings. There's a single violinist, not a quartet. Quentin only incorporates one quote from the Fillory books into his vows. None of their living parents are present (which they both agreed on immediately) but they put a photo of Quentin's dad on a side table with a lit candle by it. They do a first dance but invite everyone else to join them on the dancefloor as soon as the chorus hits.

Things wrap up close to midnight, when everyone is pleasantly tipsy and giddy and Quentin has frosting on his tie since Eliot decided to try and feed him cake at the last minute and he wasn't ready for it. Julia insists on just a couple more photos before the photographer leaves for the night, and Eliot's heart, already having a big day, just about turns itself inside out watching her and Quentin make goofy faces and kiss each other's cheeks. Then she gives Quentin a gentle shove over towards Eliot.

"You two go," she says. "I'll coordinate cleanup. I'll talk to you in a couple of days, I'm sure."

Quentin rolls his eyes at her and walks to Eliot, indescribably beautiful. His _husband_. Fuck, that's going to take some getting used to, how intense that title is. He refocuses himself on what comes next, the one part of his initial vision that survived the planning process unchanged: retire to a penthouse hotel room to fuck each other's brains out.

"Shall we, my love?" Eliot asks, holding out his arm for Quentin to take.

Quentin grabs Eliot's hand instead, then does a clumsy twirl to fold himself into Eliot's arms. "We shall," he says.

It takes far too long to get from that moment to the moment where they're naked and Eliot is pushing Quentin down onto the bed so he'll sprawl with his legs hanging over the end, dropping to his knees on the plush carpet, kissing the inside of Quentin's thigh, nipping a little with his teeth on his way up.

"El," Quentin breathes, and reaches down, his ring catching the light. He strokes his fingers through Eliot's hair. "You sure this is what you want to do?"

Eliot stops his progression up towards Quentin's dick, rests his chin on Quentin's thigh. "Is it not what you want?"

"No, fuck, it is. But like. We did just get married. Shouldn't we like, I don't know. It seems like it'd be. More official if you fucked me."

"You're so fucking stereotypical sometimes," Eliot says. He resumes kissing his way over Quentin's thighs, zeroing in on Quentin's balls so he can lick them, make Quentin make a pleased noise. "This marriage is what we make it," he adds between kisses. "If we say me blowing you is official enough to seal the deal, then it is."

"I," Quentin says, and then Eliot sucks one of his balls into his mouth and gently massages it with his tongue and Quentin loses his train of thought. "Okay," he manages eventually. "You're right."

"Get used to saying that," Eliot says. "We're married now, you're never going to win an argument again."

"Now who's being stereotypical _ohfuck--_ "

Eliot loosens his jaw so he can sink even lower onto Quentin's cock. It's not all the way hard yet, so it's easy enough to bottom out like this. He starts having to pull back as it hardens more, dragging his tongue up as he goes, enjoying Quentin's little _fuck, ah, oh_ noises every time he bobs back down to take in more of his length.

He gets what Quentin was saying, about fucking feeling more official, but to put it simply, that's some straight people bullshit. That's not them. Just like tossing a bouquet or garter into a crowd of cousins they barely know wouldn't have been them, like fully eloping without throwing any kind of party for their people wouldn't have been them. They are strange, and wondrous, and fucked up, and inexplicable, and so unbelievably lucky. They defy expectations at every turn. They'll fuck in the morning, but for now, Eliot wants to _give_ , wants to overwhelm his _husband_ with affection and pleasure.

Quentin's making happy sounds with every slide of Eliot's mouth over him. He's fully hard, thick and hot in Eliot's mouth, but not yet clutching at Eliot's hair or making little jerky cut-off movements to keep himself from thrusting. Eliot sweeps his thumb over Quentin's balls, curls his tongue so it presses on the head of Quentin's cock on the upstroke. He listens and watches for all of Quentin's tiniest reactions: twitches and gasps and murmured words, the speed of Quentin's pulse, and he's so thoroughly in Quentin's personal space that he can see _all_ of them as they happen, use them to decide how he'd like to coax Quentin towards the edge.

One of Quentin's legs shifts, hooks around Eliot's back, his heel rubbing over Eliot's skin. Eliot leans even closer in, goes even deeper, feels the answering squeeze of Quentin's leg pressing harder into him. They could keep this positive feedback loop going until Eliot is impossibly deep, swallowing the whole length of Quentin's cock, until he's crushed up against the bed and Quentin's foot is digging into his ribs. Yesterday that still wouldn't have been quite close enough to soothe Eliot's stomach-twisting need to get closer to this wondrous, inexplicable man. But now-- now they've said, hey, we're doing this. They have the piece of paper and the tax benefits to prove it. Hey, you're mine.

Hey. I'm yours.

Eliot chokes a little bit, more on his own feelings than on Quentin's dick, and gracefully pulls off, licks a broad stripe up the side. Quentin hums happily, looking down at Eliot with a questioning expression.

Eliot rests his chin on Quentin's pelvis, just next to his dick. He reaches up to where Quentin's hand is resting in his hair and pulls it down in front of his face instead. He kisses Quentin's knuckles, runs his thumb over the simple gold band on Quentin's ring finger.

"I love you," he says, hoping Quentin will attribute his hoarseness to the blowjob and not the emotions.

Quentin's face breaks into a smile like the sun rising. "I love you too," he says, and sits up, cups Eliot's cheek to tip him up into a long, slow kiss. Eliot keeps his grip on Quentin's other hand, still playing with his wedding ring.

Quentin pulls back softly, breaking the kiss. "Is this gonna be your new thing?" he asks. "Messing with my ring? I could've gotten one of those fidgety ones that spins, that would have been more fun."

Eliot grimaces, kisses Quentin again before he sits up too much and Eliot can't easily reach. "I can't really explain," he says, shrugging.

"You don't really have to," Quentin says. "I think I get it." He touches Eliot's hand where it's resting on his thigh, strokes his thumb over Eliot's ring as well.

Eliot smiles at him, then nudges his stomach so he'll tip backwards again. "Where was I?" he says. "Ah, yes--"

They'll fuck in the morning. Or tomorrow afternoon. Or both. But for now Eliot is going to give Quentin this, because today, even more than any other day, Eliot wants to give him everything.


End file.
